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Brooks Peterson
Brooks Peterson's column is published Mondays. Brooks also sits on the Caller-Times editorial board and can be contacted at petersonb@caller.com
Monday, May 15, 2000
Militant rodents demand justice - rat now
I was sitting at my desk, staring moodily at the dust bunnies playing tag, when the phone rang.
Inwardly, I cringed. True, every now and again there's a friendly call from someone who has the perception and taste to appreciate what we dish up for them. More often, though, it's an individual who has taken umbrage at our efforts to shove our views down his throat.
Wearily, I picked up the receiver. "Hey, you," an utterly unfamiliar voice began, "you think you're pretty smart, don't ya?"
This was a new one. The voice was sly and sibilant, insinuating and raspy all at once . . . with just the suggestion of a little break in it.
Actually, it was like a . . . squeak?
"Look," I replied, "I'd love to play phone games with you, but right now I'm about six weeks behind on a Mother's Day editorial, and . . ."
"Oh, so you like mothers, do you, scribe?" my caller inquired with obvious bitterness. "How about our mothers? How about our innocent little kids? How come we don't read anything about the concerted attempt to wipe out our community? When are we going to get fair play in your rag?"
It was obvious I had a live one here. "Somehow, pal, you've confused me with somebody who knows what the heck you're talking about. Who is this, anyhow?"
"I'm the voice of the disenfranchised masses, is who I am," he shot back. "But for the sake of this conversation you can call me Ralph."
"Ralph? Ralph who?"
"Ralph Rohdawnh,"
"Rohdawnh?" I repeated. "What kinda name is that?"
"Rohdawnh, dipstick," he snarled. "Spell it just the way it sounds: R-O-D-E-N-T."
"Ralph Rodent?" I said. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"Joke? That's rich. Would it be a joke if trained killers were prowling your neighborhood, snapping your loved ones' necks, poisoning your young, depriving you of your food sources? I think now."
"Now, just a darn minute -"
"I speak for multitudes," the unpleasant little voice chirped. "I am RATFINK."
"Well, OK, everybody's got to be somebody, I guess, but -"
"It's an acronym, you hairless ape," he grated. "It stands for Rodents Allied To Fight INdiscriminate Killing."
"Does this have something to do with that business over at KidsPlace?"
"It has everything to do with it. What we have going on over there is a calculated campaign of rodenticide," he said. "And what we want to know is, why the conspiracy of silence?"
"Eh?"
"Where's People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals? Where are the vegetarian anarchists? Where are the politicians?" Then his voice broke: "Where's the reaction to the images? Two and even three rats caught in the same trap, their little lives snuffed out by a spring-loaded death machine. Little rat carcasses held aloft by grinning killers."
This was getting seriously weird. "Look, Ralph," I said, "you've got to admit that, from the human perspective, you guys represent a problem, big-time. I mean, how are little kids supposed to romp and frolic when they're sharing their playground with . . . rats?"
"We're a problem?" Ralph shrilled. "Have we so much as nibbled at an exposed toe? I ask you. And besides, we rats were here before you guys ever learned to walk upright.
"You say we're repulsive. Dangerous. Disgusting. You say we're plague carriers. But you're the people who feed squirrels in the parks. And what's a squirrel? Just a rat with a bushy tail."
"Well, yeah, but -"
"All we're saying is, can't we all just get along?" Ralph asked, his voice breaking. "Why doesn't anybody feel our pain? Where's the outrage?"
"Know what you need?" I asked.
"What?"
"Two words: public relations. Lose the scaly tails, and maybe then we can talk."
Brooks Peterson
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